


Duty and Devotion

by itsjustliah



Category: Original Work
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Blind Character, Diplomacy, F/M, Fantasy, Female Protagonist, Fictional Religion & Theology, Forced Marriage, Human/Monster Romance, Lamiae, Naga, Rating May Change, Royalty, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, Strong Female Characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:34:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29936265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsjustliah/pseuds/itsjustliah
Summary: The Queen of Anistopia agrees to a diplomatic marriage to save her kingdom and people from senseless war. What she planned to be a simple show of strength, however, would soon prove itself to be a far greater challenge than she could have ever anticipated.How is a Queen to rebuild her kingdom when her people are rightfully scared of her new husband, and her husband is rightfully scared of her?
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 5
Kudos: 15





	Duty and Devotion

“You can’t!”

Queen Annebelle kept her eyes trained on the parchment before her, carefully signing her name at the bottom. “Pray forgive me, Dom, I believe I am _still_ very much the Queen of Anistopia.”

Her white-haired advisor wrung his hands before him, sweat beading at his already reddening brow. 

“I understand our situation is dire, Your Majesty, but this is no small favor! To give away your future, your children! The future rulers of this kingdom will be direct descendants of—“

“They answered our plea for mercy. To turn down this generous offer would only mean more death and suffering for our people.” She waved her hand above the ink to help it dry faster. “It’s a small price to pay for peace.”

Dom whimpered and gasped beside her. “Please, Your Majesty, I _beg_ of you, rethink this decision!”

“I’ve thought upon it long enough.”

“A single day! It can’t be—“ His hand jerked towards hers as it reached for her royal seal. Thankfully, he stopped him before he committed an act of treason.

“Marriage is no prison sentence, Dom.” Annebelle crooned, folding the parchment into thirds, then applying a dab of wax to the seam and pressing her seal into the navy blue glob. “All it mandates is a few court appearances per year, a handful of praises anytime he’s asked about, and some semblance of an heir produced within a year of the ceremony.” She set the seal aside with a smile. “Besides, it certainly doesn't need to be _his_ heir.”

Her advisor stammered wordlessly for a moment before finally finding his voice. “Your Majesty! The Gods would have your head for defiling their sacred bond of marriage!”

“The same gods that saw it fit to make me Queen?” Annebelle scoffed. “They knew this would happen, then.”

She raised a hand to pat the poor man on the shoulder, then handed him the sealed letter. 

“Have this sent by dove at once and prepare the royal escort. We wouldn’t want to make my future husband wait much longer, now, would we?”

* * *

Annebelle watched out her carriage window as it trundled down the cobbles of the Royal Road. Rows upon rows of corn, hearty and plentiful, sprawled out towards the distance in long, orderly rows. Bushels of grain were set out to dry upon the side of the road. No guards, no peasants standing watch, just left there, as if feeding their people were of little concern.

_I won’t have to worry about feeding my people, either,_ she thought, _once I bring an end to this war._

Three years into the alarmingly one-sided conflict had brought more than just death to her people. Trade blockades prevented them from buying or selling products across their borders, setting the Kingdom’s economy alight and forcing artisans and tradesmen into military duty—and eventually, to their deaths. If that weren’t bad enough, after conquering the cities surrounding the territory they wished to capture, the Empire’s armies had set their fields ablaze, too, sending tens of thousands of displaced refugees further inland in search of food. With her people dying on the battlefield and starving in their homes, the Empire had left her no choice but to petition for surrender.

She’d expected to cede the territory to the Empire, of course. Demanding her hand in marriage, however, was another thing entirely. True, joining families would give the Empire little reason to attack her kingdom in the future, but it also increased their chances of swallowing the entirety of Anistopia once her heir was fully grown and she was no longer Queen. Dom was hardly the only advisor to protest her decision to comply; other members of the Council had brought that particular repercussion to her attention, too. Annebelle recognized the risks, but made the decision to accept their offer anyway. Wedding their prince gave them the one resource her Kingdom desperately needed: time. It would be at least sixteen years before an heir would be of age and be eligible to make political decisions. That was sixteen years to prepare for the potential political conflict.

_Sixteen years to ensure that my people won’t be mistreated by the Empire that will likely own them by then._

Though she was known for her calculating, aloof nature, beneath the mask, she deeply cared about her people. Her parents, blessed be their souls, were careful to instill that love within her from a young age. They took her to visit every city, village, and hamlet, pray at every shrine and chapel, and admire and cherish the work of every citizen, from the workers in their fields to the artisans in their workshops. Keeping her mask firm and strong during three years of destruction and death was her hardest trial yet.

_And Dom thinks that marrying a beast is worse than that._

Annebelle didn't need spies or advisors to tell her about the monster locked up in the Fyllian Empire's palace. Rumors whispered between servants and bedtime stories embellished by priestesses had her well-informed even before her first diplomatic briefing. The ruling queen, passing away on the birthing bed after giving life to her first twin. Fyllian Prince Brys was handsome, dark of eyes and skin, and barely cried when he was pulled from his mother. His brother, on the other hand, shrieked for attention, even whilst still within her dead belly. When they opened her stomach to free him, they discovered not a child, but a _beast_. 

Descriptions of his appearance varied from rumor to rumor; one particularly poignant memory described him as half-ostrich, half-slug, but every rumor and piece of political intelligence agreed on three things: his sickly-white skin, his fire-red hair, and his all-seeing eyes of darkness. While the first two could be taken for no more than albinism, the last aspect would draw shifty eyes from her people, and screaming horror from the far more religious Fyllian citizenry. Black eyes were the sign of the Great Demon himself, Lord of destruction and pestilence, and any child unfortunate enough to be born with them within the borders of the Fyllian Empire was as good as stillborn.

But the babe--Prince Bren, as his mother named him--was a member of the royal family, and second in line to the throne, no less. To kill a prince would be blasphemy in the eyes of the gods and an unexpected boon in the eyes of their political rivals. So the Prince lived, even nineteen years later, locked in a well-furnished room deep in the bowels of the palace. Reports from the Empire claimed the royal family provided him with scripture, with the hopes of 'praying away' his monstrous affliction.

Of course, it never would be, but that didn't stop them from trying. With how terrified their people were of a potential _Demon Reborn_ lurking within the walls of the palace, the royals needed to expend every last effort reassuring them that their princely situation was under control. Outside of the Empire, most diplomats generally agreed that Prince Bren was long dead. After all, why keep up the ruse when one flick of the wrist could end their problems?

_How wrong they were,_ Annebelle pondered. Prince Bren was alive, and he would soon become Bren _Anistopia_ , King-Escort of the Kingdom of Anistopia, husband to its loyal Queen. Her people would be saved, not just from the horrors of war, but for generations to come, protected by the willing sacrifice of her marriage bed. Her enemies would tremble with awe at her grace and humility, not to mention her strength of character. None would look down upon their kingdom for doing what was right. 

Despite her confidence, a long-forgotten anxiety bubbled up between thoughts. What did this Prince Bren look like? Was he as monstrous as the rumors had spoken of when she was a child? What did that much isolation _do_ to a man, let alone a beast? Would she truly be able to parade him to events and present him to the citizenry, as she'd promised in her return letter? 

_I suppose I'll find out soon_ , she thought with a sigh.

* * *

When they arrived, they were greeted first by a large party of high-ranking military commanders, then by a smaller group of ambassadors from other nations, who escorted them to the Great Gate of the Fyllian Palace. Ambassadors gave way to high-ranking servants, who ushered the Queen and her growing party into the grand hall, where they were met by the Emperor of the Fyllian Empire himself, Prince Brys.

Immediately, Annebelle remembered why she hated the man. Between his impossibly good looks, his too-sharp tongue, and that sneer that never seemed to leave his lips, he was the very definition of a man spoiled by power. Too much land in his possession, too many armies under his command, and far too few women to teach him how to properly behave--though Annebelle supposed that being Emperor allowed him to behave however he pleased.

Despite his sneer and beady, venomous eyes, he managed to bark out a snappy speech about _forgiveness_ and _the value of peace_. The diplomats and commanders nodded and applauded, as did the Queen, but she doubted any of them truly believed the words coming out of his mouth. This was no graceful surrender. The Empire had stolen their land, burned their fields, and forced their Queen to take a monster into her bed. To them, there was no greater show of might.

Annebelle, on the other hand, found it ironic. _I'd much rather marry this beast of a brother than have to put up with this orphan bastard day and night._ The last time they'd met in parley, he'd not only made light of the armies he'd destroyed, but also spat upon the peace treaty she'd offered him, quite literally. 

_At least, given the unfortunate state of his brother, he'll never come to visit._ The thought made her chuckle, which earned her a stern look from the lady-in-waiting currently attending to her makeup. Everything was in place for the ceremony, so not fifteen minutes after she'd arrived, she was whisked away into a private chamber and allowed a moment to dress herself for the sacred occasion. Now, clad in a tight-fitting navy-blue dress, the most luxurious of gold silk wrapped around her shoulders, and a small crown woven into her braided hair, she was just about ready to meet her self-prescribed fate.

"Gods be with you, Your Highness." The maid murmured under her breath as she pulled away.

"Thank you," she replied, standing and nodding to the guard by the door. As tempting as it was to add _the Gods are always with me_ , she decided to stay humble, if only because of the blessings that would soon be spoken over her.

A Fyllian soldier fell into step with her as she was escorted down the hall, through a locked door, then up a series of well-worn steps to the palace chapel. The room was wide, with pews that could accommodate a thousand people stretching out to her left and right. Today, however, only three others were present in the echoing space: the Emperor, seated in the first row, smirking as she entered; another Fyllian soldier, keeping watch over the scene; and a Fyllian Priestess, dressed in black and white robes and clutching a sacred scroll.

Her convoy left her at the last row of pews, gesturing to the Priestess beside the central altar. With a quiet sigh, Queen Annebelle proceeded forward.

"Blessings upon you, Your Highness," the velvet-tongued Priestess crooned. "Thank you for pursuing peace."

Annebelle held back a retort, instead sinking to her knees with a nod. "Peace is best for our peoples, My Lady."

"The Gods would agree."

A shuffling of feet drew the Queen's attention. The Priestess had turned towards the altar. When she shuffled back into place, she was holding a thick, grey-and-white hood, which she then proffered to the Queen.

"One of our customs, Your Highness. Please bow your head."

Annebelle knew from her research that this was most certainly _not_ one of their customs. Most likely, it was a cruel trick the Emperor was playing on her, one last insult before he fatally wounded her pride forever. No matter. It was hardly the worst she'd endured, so the Queen bowed her head and allowed the Priestess to drape the heavy fabric over her shoulders, head, and eyes.

Strangely, no retort came. In fact, when the Emperor spoke next, it was lacking his usual confident smarm. "Bring him in."

The ker-chak of a heavy door unbolting, then the _squeal_ of ungreased hinges, rang out through the empty space. Annebelle stilled her movements to better listen to each and every sound. First, the grinding tapping of boots, likely yet another soldier entering. Then, another sound, something she couldn't quite recognize. A _shuffling?_ A _sliding?_ Was Prince Bren infirm, and they were bringing him on some kind of sled?

_Minutes will tell,_ she reminded herself. 

Despite her reassurances, she was nervous. She could feel every hair on the back of her neck prickling with anticipation. Those prickles turned into a jolt of fear as a figure, _large_ and _heavy_ , slid into place by her right. It wasn’t a sled, nor was it a rolling chair. The child within her wondered if there really was truth in those stories she’d heard years ago.

Before the adult within her could chastise her thoughts for such foolishness, something cold, hard, and _leathery_ bumped against her exposed ankle. She shuddered, withholding the instinct to jump and scurry away from the sensation. Lucky she did, because the offending protrusion was soon swept away, and she would hear her husband’s first words:

“M-my apologies.”

A quiet voice, hurried and whispered. She could hear the fear dripping from every syllable. So many revelations with two words: the Prince could speak. The Prince was polite. And, more than anything, the Prince was _far_ more afraid than she was.

Annebelle allowed herself a gentle chuckle.

“It’s all right, dear.”

A muffled _squeak_ was all she received in response. It was all she needed to turn her fear into _desperate curiosity_.

“If we are all present, then I would like to begin the ceremony.”

The Priestess spoke the usual blessings, but Annebelle couldn’t hear them. Her mind was swarming with thoughts. If he had good manners and could speak properly, then why did they keep him _this_ isolated? Was it really because everyone was so religious? Was it his appearance, then? Is _this_ why they made her put on this ridiculous hood?

A question addressed to her broke her out of her thoughts.

“Queen Annebelle of Anistopia, you are your own woman. Do you agree to devote your mind, body, and soul to this man, Prince Bren of the Fyllian Empire?”

“With all my soul, body, and mind, My Lady.” She murmured. 

The priestess turned her head, not to the Prince beside her, but to the Emperor seated far behind them.

"Emperor Brys of the Great Fyllian Empire, your brother, Prince Bren, is in your care. Do you agree to relinquish his mind, body, and soul to this woman, Queen Annebelle of Anistopia?"

"If he wills it." There was a tension in the Emperor's voice that hadn't been there before, almost as if he were gritting his teeth. Her instincts had been spot on earlier, then: this _was_ far more than just another knife in the back. This was something the Empire and the Emperor deemed _generous_. _Thank the Gods for their devotees,_ she thought.

No time to ponder political ramifications. The priestess was going to speak to Prince Bren himself.

"Prince Bren of the Great Fyllian Empire, do you agree to devote your mind, body, and soul to this woman, Queen Annebelle of Anistopia?"

Annebelle tilted her head, focusing intently on the soft breathing to her right.

"With--" The Prince breathed. A moment later, he forced more voice into his words to speak the devotion. "With all my soul, body, and mind, My-- My Lady."

A clear voice, one remarkably human.

"The Gods will now bestow upon your their blessings. Please," the priestess paused, her silks rustling as she gestured to the Prince, "clasp hands to receive them as one."

A trembling inhale from her right tickled at the Queen's ears. When his touch didn't immediately come, she lifted her elbow and swung her hand out towards the sound. Her wrist and knuckles met loose, cascading fabric, slightly warm. No extra legs, beastly fur, or horrific form. The hand that swung down to meet her fingers, however hesitant, was _also_ unmistakably human. She curled her hand around it, smoothing her fingertips over his palm to explore him further. His skin was soft as any nobleman's, uncalloused, with perfectly manicured fingernails. When it trembled in her grasp, she gave it a reassuring squeeze, one that also motivated it to close around hers.

The Priestess began her blessings, but once again, she wasn't listening. The throbbing of his heartbeat in his fingertips was far more interesting. Though her fingers were set in place, she began to move her thumb, first tracing the muscle of his own thumb, then smoothing the pad over his wrist. Again, his skin was soft and smooth, and the bones of his hand and wrist felt firm and natural. Feeling a bit more courageous, she tilted her hand upwards in his grip, creating space for her fingernail to dip under her palm and follow the crease that lead across his. As her finger traveled inwards, his muscles tensed, then twitched with every subsequent movement.

_No scales, no fur, no claws._ She returned her fingers to their rightful positions. Why, then, this farce? _Was it just his eyes, or is there something I'm missing, something far more grotesque?_

"With your blessings bound, and your devotions true," the Priestess began, skipping a good half of the traditional marriage prayer, "beneath the eyes of men and gods, affirm your devotions once more with a kiss."

Annebelle's heart began to race, half from fear, half from excitement. Soon, she would know the future she'd brought upon herself, upon her people. She'd be able to begin planning for the next days, hours, _minutes_. She'd know the face of this polite, seemingly human prince--and the body of which his people were so afraid.

With a restrained breath, she relaxed her hand. His palm slipped from hers, semi-slick with their mingling sweat. Every hair on her body seemed to stand on end as she waited for him to touch the edges of her hood.

Yet the touch didn't come.

"Your Highness," the priestess began in a low whisper, "you may affirm your devotions _in private_ at a _later_ time, if you wish."

That wouldn't do. The Gods were far too strict when it came to devotions, and Annebelle was _far_ too curious about his appearance to let this opportunity go. Lifting her chest, she raised her hands to the fabric obscuring her eyes and tugged it off her head. Startled movement, both from the priestess and her betrothed, fogged her vision, but soon, she was able to focus on the man that would be bound to her.

The first feature she saw was his eyes: average in size, but colored the purest black, from corner to lid. The gloss of them reflected her own startled expression. The darkness was only accentuated by the lightness of his skin, pink and pale and devoid of color, but not quite as milky white as those unlucky albinos. She could see color blooming into his cheeks and flooding his trembling lips. Her gaze followed the curve of his jaw, from the pointed tip of his chin to the crease of his neck and upwards, then outwards as his ears flared into sharp, winged points. A mop of dark-red hair lay uncombed atop his crown, though it was still too short to obscure his brow.

At her stare, the Prince tilted his head downwards, averting his pupilless gaze.

Annebelle followed the motion downwards. Though his pink neck and collar were exposed, his shoulders and chest were clothed in the traditional grey-and-red wrap of Fyllian nobility. His hands hung at his waist, gripping one another with bone-white knuckles. She searched for the belt that would signify his status, but found none; the fabric hung loosely off his wide hips. She'd expected it to at least be tucked into his trousers, or some kind of formal skirt, but...

All thoughts came to an abrupt stop.

Below the edge of the red-hemmed fabric lay not skin, but scales that draped down over where his pelvis _should_ be. The white rib-like scales stretched across the large ribbon of muscle that lay in place of his legs, flanked on the sides by smaller red-and-brown scales in the shape of shark's teeth. Her gaze lowered still, counting row after row, until the would-be belly of the snake hugged the fine-tiled marble below it. When she lifted her head, she could see the serpentine body continuing on behind him, folded in and over onto itself a handful of times. Emblazoned upon the back of the creature was a striking pattern of diamonds, one Annebelle immediately recognized from a motif in the stained-glass windows of the chapel.

_The symbol of evil. The body of the Great Demon himself._

No _wonder_ his people were terrified of him.

A quiet whimper tore her eyes away from the spectacle that was the Prince's lower half. There would be time to gawk later. For now, she could focus her immediate attention upon his shy, fearful, _human_ face. It was difficult to tell if he was trying to meet her gaze or avoid it altogether, but the tilt of his head implied the latter. As her attention snapped back to him, however, he jerked his chin back upwards, jaw steeled, as if ready for whatever cruelty he expected her to inflict upon him.

The Queen raised her hand to the Prince's cheek, smoothing her delicate fingertips over his skin and underneath his ear. Before any of their witnesses could retort or suggest she do anything otherwise, she leaned forward and pressed her mouth to his.

It lasted no longer than a few seconds, but it was a _proper_ marriage kiss. She felt his jaw tremble beneath her touch, his eyelashes flutter against hers as his wide, blasphemous eyes fell closed. As she drew in a slow breath through her nose, she could smell the faint scent of coconut oil and gentle perfume. Really, she'd kissed worse before. If it weren't for the nightmare extending from his lower half, then she'd be absolutely over the moon to have captured such a proper, nubile young man as her husband.

When she pulled away, his lips had parted in stunned reverence, his mirror-like eyes focused squarely upon her. As he exhaled, the corners of his trembling lips turned upwards into a sheepish smile.

Just like that, her uncertain heart skipped a beat.

_Perhaps the Gods mean to imply that his lower half is of no importance._

The priestess cleared her throat. 

"With your devotion witnessed, I am humbled to proclaim your souls wedded as one."

**Author's Note:**

> "itsjustliah, you should really finish one of your two WIPs--"  
> "hehe snake boy go brr"
> 
> Forgive me this small indulgence. Sometimes, we all need a soft snek boy to dote upon.
> 
> Expect the slowest of burns, the taming of a very shy hermit, and the softening of a hard royal's shell.


End file.
